


Of Timelords and toes

by hannapalooza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Little Bit Of Crack, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Not to be taken seriously, soft drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannapalooza/pseuds/hannapalooza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets hold of Mrs Hudson's "herbal soothers"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Timelords and toes

**Author's Note:**

> Un beta-ed and not to be taken seriously (I was high when I wrote this).

 

(20)

Two doctors down with the norovirus and by 6pm on Friday John was ready to drop. It had been non-stop at the surgery all week, but as he’d discovered since moving in with Sherlock busy didn’t necessarily mean fun. John was of the opinion that if he saw one more toddler with a runny nose, mum with a stress headache or old dear with a dicky tummy he’d do something he’d enjoy at the time but would probably regret later. He locked his consulting room door, dodged the offer of yet another slice of birthday cake from Melissa the receptionist and checked his phone as he headed out into the miserable winter night to catch the bus home.

**I know you won’t dear but please don’t forget to feed my plants, Jeffery and of course Sherlock! I’ll be home on the 27 th – Mrs H.**

 

By the time the wind-whipped awning of Speedy’s came into view John’s shoulder was aching, the carrier bags dragging at his wrists, squalls of icy rain gusting into his face and drenching his coat. He fumbled the door key out of his pocket with numb fingers, swearing at the keyhole as it refused to oblige him on the first try. Eventually he was in the hallway, slamming the door on the foul weather and ready to hibernate for at least a couple of days (unforeseen flatmate induced emergencies not withstanding of course). Dumping his coat and bags of shopping, he crossed to Mrs Hudson’s door, trying to remember the lift- jiggle-shove manoeuvre that got the damn thing open.

 

It was strange that no matter how often the landlady appeared in their flat, being in her space still felt a bit like trespassing, especially when she wasn’t here. Shoving his uneasiness down, John watered the plants, made kissy faces at Jeffery as he scattered food on the surface of his bowl and whilst he was there checked that the appliances were all switched off – a legacy of living with Sherlock’s easily distracted nature. Satisfied that all was right and his night off could begin in earnest, John took one final glance around the flat and spied a Tupperware box on the kitchen table filled with brownies. Whilst there was no note to indicate they were for him and Sherlock (although Mrs Hudson was well aware of their fondness for her baking) John reasoned they would be stale by the time she got back, and they did look very tasty. Satisfied with his logic he peeled back the lid and snagged one of the sticky moist squares wolfing it in two bites before he snatched up the box, locked the flat behind him and dragged the shopping upstairs.

 

(19)

John changed out of his damp clothes into his pyjamas and robe while the kettle boiled. He had to admit that Sherlock’s lax dress-code around the house (whilst inappropriate for visitors) was by far the comfiest way to lounge about. A second brownie disappeared whilst the tea was brewing, the third and fourth assisted him as he unpacked the shopping and set the fire. Ten minutes later he was where he wanted to be - in his armchair in front of the fire with a steaming cup of tea and a (hopefully) interesting book.  He didn’t even feel a shred of guilt for hoping that Sherlock would be out for a little while longer, because this peace was just lovely.

 

 

No such luck. Sherlock came barrelling through the door fifteen minutes later. He was soaked to the bone, hair hanging almost straight down with the weight of the water and his face was chilled to a bright pink. He stripped off his gloves; scarf and coat, and then shook himself like a wet dog, droplets of water falling from his hair to scatter in all directions. John giggled, which earned him a half-hearted glare.

“What are you so happy about?”

“End of a shitty week, warm cosy flat, a new book and nothing particular to do until work on Monday.” John shrugged. “It’s good.”

“I think the word you’re searching for is boring”

“No, that’s what _you’d_ call it. There’s tea in the pot.”

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgment and wandered off down the hall to change.

 

(15)

John was just settling into his book when he heard Sherlock call from the kitchen, his tone pensive.

 “What? I’m not pouring the tea for you, you’re _right there._ ”

Silence. John shifted round to see that Sherlock was standing in the doorway, holding the box of brownies and staring at him. “How many of these did you eat John?”

“Alright greedy, there’s plenty left for you”

“How...many...John”

All of a sudden John was a little worried. Sherlock’s voice carried an edge of nervousness. He looked across at the empty plate next to his mug. “Um. Four or five. Sherlock. What did you put in the brownies?” He tried to keep his voice calm. They couldn’t be poisoned, surely not; they were in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen. Sherlock wouldn’t do that. Would he?

“Oh.”

John struggled not to panic “Sherlock! What the hell is in those brownies?!”

Sherlock sat opposite him, assessing him with cool eyes. The box rested open on his lap. “Hmm. Well. Mrs Hudson’s “herbal soothers?” Happen to be the finest Northern Lights in London. I procure it; she bakes it into these brownies. It helps with her hip. So you haven’t been poisoned but in approximately twenty minutes you _are_ going to be very very stoned.”

John couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up out of him, and he tried desperately to talk through his rather undignified cackles “Oh...that’s brilliant! I haven’t been... stoned in... years!”

Sherlock looked a little taken aback at that, and the fact that John had managed to surprise him (for once) made him laugh all the harder “you...may...want to revise....your estimated time...of highness Mr Holmes.”

“Highness? Did you just say highness?” Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Well this is going to be interesting. But you’re ok with it?”

John took a couple of steadying breaths and a gulp of tea to stem the laughter. “Yes, it’s fine. I’m somewhat of an advocate for medicinal marijuana use, and happen to personally believe it’s a much more sociable and harmless recreational drug than alcohol. Speaking of which, I think it would be wise if you had a couple of brownies yourself.”

The look of shock that passed over Sherlock’s face was so comical that it set John off into another round of giggles.

“Why on earth would you think that would be a good idea?”

“Self preservation mostly” John shrugged “I don’t trust you not to experiment on me when I’m all stoned and suggestible.”

Sherlock quirked a placid eyebrow at him, nodded in acknowledgement and without breaking eye contact swiftly caught and consumed three brownies and fastidiously licked his fingers clean in the space of what seemed to John to be five seconds. Sherlock bared his teeth in a grin that was part pleasure part challenge, slid to his feet and retreated to the kitchen to pour himself a cuppa.

 

/\/\/\/\/\

(12)

John was delightfully weightless, cocooned in the warmth of the fire down his left side and drifting happily in the quiet. His mind buzzed with hazy disconnected thoughts and random nonsensical associations. Then one jumped out of him as absolutely true. He snapped his head down and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, draped lengthwise over the chair opposite him, head upside down and staring at the hypnotic dance of the flames, ridiculously long legs dangling lazily.

“I need to get my stethoscope.”

Sherlock’s eyes drifted sideways to focus on him, a wrinkle appearing above his nose as he attempted to make sense of what John had just said, but John was already on his feet and halfway to the door.

He returned a couple of minutes later, triumphantly brandishing said stethoscope, but Sherlock’s attention was once more on the fireplace.

“Sit up, I need to prove something.”

Sherlock raised his head just enough to showcase his “I am not amused” face but was unceremoniously hauled to a sitting position by John tugging on his hands. A shadow of dizziness fluttered through his brain at the sudden change in equilibrium and he breathed in the delightful little head-rush.

“Are you going to explain yourself or just manhandle me?”

John quirked a smile. “Trying to disguise the fact that you have no idea what I’m talking about? I knew it was a good idea to get you stoned. Is this what Sherlock Holmes would be like if he was of average human intelligence?”

Sherlock shook his head hard and fixed his most penetrating glare onto John for seven unbearably long seconds before the answer came to him. He dropped his head to the chair back with a groan. “Average human intelligence. A stethoscope. You want to make sure I’m not a Timelord.”

“Absolutely.” John was quietly impressed that he’d figured it out so quickly but resisted the impulse to praise.

“I require a sound hypothesis as to why you’ve deduced I’m a Timelord before I will allow you to experiment on me.” Sherlock cracked an eye open to gauge his flatmate’s response. “I’m not as suggestible as _some_ people when I’m high.”

“Ok...hmm ok that’s fair enough. Gimme a minute.” John idly tapped the cold metal of the stethoscope against his chin, eyes upturned to the ceiling in thought. He ticked the points off on his fingers as they occurred to him.  

“One - you’re ridiculously intelligent, the speed at which you process information could be described as super human.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere John Watson.”

 “Shh. Two – you can deduce motive from a bloody footprint, someone’s love life from their fingernails, their secrets from the way they hold a phone. And yet you have no idea how to interact with people...”

“Finding social niceties boring does not mean I am unaware of their existence.”

John paused for a moment then nodded. “Point taken. But your argument doesn’t make you appear any less hmm timelordy...yes I know that’s not a word.” John started pacing, hands resting comfortably behind his back “Three – you have a reckless disregard for your own safety which makes a whole lot of sense if you factor in the whole regeneration thing.”

He pivoted to make his way back across the room and suddenly faltered. Sherlock was a lazy vision sprawled on the chair in front of him and backlit by the fire. The riotous disarray of his curls framed a face that seemed to glow from within, profile delineated by a cheekbone sharper than a blade, the shadowed outline of lips softened to a hazy smile. And those graceful limbs falling as languidly as his robe, the blue silk sleeve draped down his trailing arm, fingertips just grazing the floor.

“Four – just” he made an empty gesture in Sherlock’s direction “damn you don’t even _look_ human.”

Sherlock turned his head at that, a flicker of hurt in his eyes for a brief second.

“No. I mean you’re...I don’t know beautiful like a marble sculpture or something. Everything seems so perfectly put together, even your feet are like damn works of art – it’s not natural!”

Sherlock watched the flush crawl from John’s throat up to redden his cheeks, felt his face crack into a smile of genuine mirth, as he slowly and provocatively clenched and unfurled his toes directly in his flatmate’s eye line.

John shook his head, cleared his throat, and tapped a finger to his lips. “So is that er enough of a hypothesis for you The Detective?”

With a melodramatic huff of annoyance Sherlock wheeled round in the armchair planting his feet back on the floor and sitting up straight. “Fine. Have at you Dr Watson.”

John approached, deftly fitting the stethoscope into his ears as he crossed the room. He laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and leaned in, placing the metal against the left side of Sherlock’s chest. He obligingly held his breath as John listened for the cadence of his heart. Nodding gruffly he slid the disc across the front of Sherlock’s t-shirt, wincing a little at the crackle of the material in his ears. Sherlock stilled his breath again. John pulled back after a few seconds, tugging the ear pieces out and tossing the instrument on the chair behind him.

“Thank God.”

“You’re happy that you were proved wrong?”

“Well obviously I am. I would have been incredibly pissed off if you were a Timelord and the farthest and most exotic place you’d taken me was that Thai place on the Greys Inn Road.”

 

 

/\/\/\/\/\/\

(8)

“...I have never seen Lestrade so embarrassed, it was well worth the night in the cells to see that look on his face...” Sherlock shakily inhaled his laughter all but silent through lack of breath.

“Oh Christ Sherlock, stop please, I hurt!” John begged, flapping his hand in the air, other fist pressed into his side as he doubled over, his entire body shaking with the force of his giggles.

Sherlock waited, closing his eyes briefly and taking a deep breath to quell the laughter in his throat. Eventually John quietened, raised his head, smiled warmly.

Sherlock cracked an evil grin in return, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and eyeballing his friend. “Of course” he continued his tone lower “Mycroft’s retribution was a lot more vindictive.” He flashed an exaggerated wink and nonchalantly tossed a conveniently mouth sized piece of brownie into the air, turning his face in time to catch it in his mouth with a satisfied smack. John fell apart once more; letting out a joyful roar of such force it slid him out of his chair and into a helpless giggling heap on the floor at Sherlock’s feet.

“Oh God, Mycro...n...Lestr...that’s” John was reduced to helpless hand gestures to convey his thoughts on the matter “the...next time...your brother pisses....me off...he’s” John raised his head, fixing Sherlock with a sly grin.

Sherlock had a vision of exactly what look Mycroft would get when John threw that in his face, and suddenly tremors were shaking his own body as he joined in the laughter “John” he huffed “promise me you’ll make sure I’m there. It’ll be _brilliant!”_ It was remarkably easy to loosen his limbs and tumble into the space on the floor next to his flatmate.

 

/\/\/\/\/\

(4)

John shivered at the wave of goose bumps ghosting down his entire body as the last chord of the aria lapsed into stillness. The cup of tea cradled between his crossed legs was stone cold, his back suffused with the heat of the embers behind him. He released a contented sigh, tipping his head to face the ceiling as his awareness filtered back.

“That was...” He whispered into the silent air, unwilling to break the spell.

“Transcendent” Sherlock murmured.

John tilted his head back down, unable to see more than the dark outline of his flatmate lying prone on the carpet. “Yes. Perfect. Transcendent. I feel...”

Sherlock unwound his clasped hands, shifted onto his side and half opened his eyes. “Golden.”

“Hmm. No, that wasn’t what I was thinking.”

“No, you. You’re glowing. Your aura is shiny.”

“What? My aura? Are you hallucinating?”

“Perhaps.” Sherlock replied, offhand.  “It’s quite captivating.” He continued to stare dreamily at John “it makes flames of your hair.”

“Flames...Golden...Oh!” John shifted his weight to the side “You can see the light from the fire behind me and you deduced that you could see my aura. Blimey what have I done to you?”

Sherlock collapsed onto his back, covering his face with his hands and letting out a melodramatic groan. “That’s it! I’ve turned into Anderson!”

John grinned as he got to his feet “In that case we’re all doomed.”

“Well, quite. May as well go out with a bang, there’s only four brownies left.”

As John wandered into the kitchen thoughtfully chewing on the moist chocolate he couldn’t find any fault in Sherlock’s logic.

 

/\/\/\/\/\/\

(0)

“I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

Sherlock snorted with impatience “Do try and keep up John.”

“Yes. Sorry. Christ I’m wrecked. Carry on.”

“You’re so gracious. As I was saying the first clue to origin is the particular colouration of the ash, the discernible proportions of both the white and black...”

Sherlock’s voice started to lose meaning, becoming a melodious backdrop to John’s distraction. He was exquisitely and acutely aware of every inch of his body; the nerve endings in his skin singing from the contrasting sensory inputs of cloth, breeze, couch, feet. More accurately Sherlock’s feet; chilled and supple resting against the outer curve of his thigh, those damn dextrous toes tapping in unconscious rhythm against the thin cotton of his pyjamas.

As John luxuriated in the moment his body boneless and pliant he dimly registered an uptick in the bass rumbling of Sherlock’s monologue, the man’s toes moving more rapidly and the arch of his foot clenching against John’s leg as he became more animated. It was infuriating and arousing in equal measure, a painful reminder of the lack of sexual contact in John’s life at present tinged with nostalgic memories of Ginny Stephens his college girlfriend. Those endless blissful nights of unabashed exploration, every touch, shiver and giggle heightened to a glorious stoned intensity.   John had pushed his knees further apart to press back into the maddening contact before he realised what he was doing, but the sudden silence was telling.

Sherlock deliberately and precisely tapped both his big toes. “Is something bothering you John?”

“What? No, it’s fine, it’s all fine.” John shifted back, waved his hand in dismissal.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, swiftly drawing his feet back to rest flat on the couch cushion. “Not everything is fine all the time you know? I don’t have to be coddled like an infant or pandered to like some delicate flower.”

“What?” John knew Sherlock well enough to predict the eye roll even if he couldn’t see it in the dim room.

“I’m saying that you don’t have to defer to me at every minute of every day.” Sherlock’s voice was softer, somehow kinder. “Sometimes it’s ok to take what you want. I won’t even force you to use your words, since your vocabulary seems to have fled the scene.”

John was still attempting to process when a single lithe foot ghosted over his leg and bizarrely started to nuzzle at the hand resting in his lap. Almost without thinking he skimmed his thumb nail along the delicate arch, wrapped capable fingers around the instep, letting out a gasp at the feel of the chilled flesh.

“Alright?” It was barely a murmur

“Yes. You’re cold, that’s all.” John lapsed into silence as he began to explore the planes and angles of Sherlock’s absurdly graceful foot.

“I’m not an untouchable marble statue.” Sherlock said abruptly.

John stilled his hands. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You misunderstand. I was trying to explain that I have rather ticklish feet.”

John patted him reassuringly on the side of the ankle. “Just relax and let me work my magic.” So saying he brought his other hand up and began to firmly stroke across the delicate dorsal ridges.

 

Sherlock fell silent almost immediately and John heard rather than saw the thud a few minutes later as his flatmate’s head hit the arm of the couch, a slow wave of relaxation unfurling his toes, foot dropping into the cradle of John’s hands as he circled his thumbs into the tender flesh.  Arousal was simmering under John’s skin, not overwhelming but insistent enough that he had resorted to methodically reciting anatomical terms in his head in an effort at keeping his breathing under control.

Under normal circumstances keeping his head studiously downturned would be clue enough for a deduction from his borderline psychic friend, but the illusion of what he might see was lending heat to his arousal and he didn’t dare look.

And then John did something that was either incredibly stupid or really smart; scraping his fingernails lightly across the sides of Sherlock’s ankle, a place he knew from vast experience was surprisingly sensitive. Sherlock flinched, the backs of his thighs tensing, but the noise he made was almost a whimper, blurring that line between discomfort and arousal, and that was so interesting it impelled John to do it again.

“John.” It was barely a warning, Sherlock’s voice too warm and slow.

John bit his lip on the automatic apology, wordlessly easing Sherlock’s leg flat across his lap and reaching across for his other foot. Sherlock relaxed again almost immediately, shifting deeper into the sofa, straightened leg becoming a weight across his thighs.

John was doing ok. He’d calculated the minimum safe distance to negate the possibility of accidental erection brushing, his breathing was mostly steady but Sherlock’s feet were _so fucking soft, nails like silk, strong supple tendons standing prominent, becoming so warm and malleable under my hands_... He gripped Sherlock’s foot a little too hard, thumb pressed awkwardly upwards into his instep, trying not to exhale in one long rush of air.

And Sherlock groaned. It was so startling John was looking across at him before he could stop himself. It was both better and worse than what he had pictured; from the hand covering his face – arm, jaw, throat in taut lines of muscle rigidity, to the palm splayed helpless and twitchy on his belly, fingers serving to highlight the proximity of his shadowed and tented crotch.

“Fuck.” It was out before he could stop it, a shade too meaningful.

Sherlock’s head snapped forward, hand falling away, eyes flickering open, widening.

“Christ.”

 

/\/\/\/\/\

 

Sherlock’s mouth tasted of chocolate and something light and spicy that was delicious and unquantifiable. His tongue was just as clever and demanding as when he used it to form words, but every inch of John’s naked body was touching another naked body, there were feet rubbing against his calves, a hand in his hair and he was adrift in pure sensation, content to be devoured. They had either been kissing for five minutes or six weeks, at this point the only things of relevance were warm skin, soft lips, heated breath, muffled noises. John was finding it hard to differentiate between the two of them; they seemed to be in a closed loop of frictionless ecstasy; every point of pressure, scratch of nail, nip of teeth perfect, complete and all consuming. John could barely move Sherlock was overwhelming - unhurried and infinitely gentle so John surrendered himself to the scrutiny.

/\/\/\/\

He was warm, comfortable and safe – that much he knew and the rest seemed inconsequential at best. The hand drawing idle patterns down his spine was soothing, the flat muscled planes of the chest cushioning his head was surprisingly comfortable; gently rippling with steady breaths. John still felt a little stoned, coherent thoughts elusive in the cotton wool of his brain.

“Morning.” Sherlock’s voice was thick with sleep, intimate and warm in a way John hadn’t heard before; it felt...nice.

“I have a feeling this should be awkward.”

“Why? Oh yes – sex. We didn’t if that’s what you’re worried about.”

John cracked a wide yawn, flexed his fingers over the curve of Sherlock’s hip and tilted his head back to make eye contact.

“No we didn’t. Like the idiot that I am I fell asleep. How can I possibly make that up to you?” He suddenly tightened his grip on Sherlock and tugged his hips forward, angling himself so their groins gently but meaningfully collided.

Sherlock’s smile was blinding.

“Bed?”

“Bed.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
